


The second time

by xsunny



Category: Joyeux Noël | Merry Christmas (2005)
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of suicide ideation, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Medical Procedures, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Canon, Prisoner of War, Whump, World War I, hurt!Horstmayer, prisoner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23374804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsunny/pseuds/xsunny
Summary: They find the German trenches empty but for a sorry excuse of a man, the drunk coward lying close to the still hot machine gun.It's the second time Lieutenant Audebert meets Oberleutnant Horstmayer.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 22





	1. Bringing the enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: If any of the tags or following topics may trigger you, or make you feel uncomfortable, please don't read this story.
> 
> * This is a fan made fiction based on a movie with characters and plot loosely based on something from real life. No disrespect intended.  
> * Derogatory expressions and reproachable behaviors I don't condone in real life.  
> * Disregard for real life military and medical subjects in favor of headcanon ones (no disrespect intended). 
> 
> This story was written for the sick!fic prompt chosen by the usual suspects (guess _who_ suggested it :evil grin:).

He comes around to the barrel of a rifle poking him in the ribs just below his wound and the sound of a gun being cocked close to his head. 

"Hey, _boche_ , are you hearing me?" The mocking tone is audible even with his eyes still closed. "Wake up!"

A nudge with a booted foot on his leg now. It hurts. He opens his eyes. Two French soldiers, sneering, aggression written all over their faces. He should answer them… shouldn't he? He is so tired.

"Pierre, he's drunk as a skunk." A derisive snort. "Look at him, cheeks red as blood, can't keep his bloodshot eyes open."

_Who is drunk?_

Nearby him rests the now depleted machine gun, still hot from use. He can feel its heat, as he can also feel the hands none too gently pulling him up from where he is sprawled with his back to the trench wall. His own hand blindly reaches for support.

"A disgrace even to his own people. Look, Jean, so out of it he can't even stand on his own!"

He's too dizzy, and almost loses his balance. _Yes, thank you for holding me up._ The hands forcefully holding his arms are now searching him, _looking for guns, maybe?_ They reach for his breast pocket.

"And the drunk scum has an Iron Cross- they must be distributing this to anyone on their side these days."

He feels fingers toying with the warm metal, then letting it go to dangle in front of his uniform. He thinks about putting it back in its place on his inner pocket, but he doubts they would allow it. He looks up to one, and then to the other, his blurred vision not making much of their appearance or rank. _They look young, though..._

"He's so out of it he's not even focusing right..." One of them says while passing a hand fast in front of his face in jerky motions, checking if he can follow the movements in mock concern. He closes his eyes before it makes him sick. He hears the scorn on their voices. 

"Do you understand us, _boche_?" One of them asks, slowly repeating while viciously shaking his arms. "Do. you. understand. me?"

He laughs at it, he can't help himself. He is backhanded, hard.

"What's so funny?!" His understanding of the language would shock them, _if I were to tell them where to shove the questions- in French_.

He feels blood trickling down the corner of his mouth, his now free hand touching the place where his lip split open. At least they keep holding him up, otherwise he would have already fallen down. _Small blessings_.

"Look at him, they must have put this uniform on him for fun. No way this sorry excuse of a man would be using something so much bigger than him." Both soldiers laugh derisively at the longer sleeves.

"You. look. like. a. clown." One of them slowly says, like he's dim-witted.

He tunes his captors out as he hears other soldiers talking to each other from afar. They are rummaging around in the dugouts, trying to understand what happened and gathering all they can. Their enemies must have fled the previous night, they say, leaving behind nothing worthy, only that poor bastard being held by Jean and Pierre. 

His attention is back to said men when they yell their answers to their fellow soldiers. 

"Yes, only him!" One of them says. More inquiring from inside the nearest dugout. 

"No, we found nothing on this one!" Answers the other. 

Then their attention is back on him, one of them shaking him by the lapels now. _Stop it or I'll throw up all over you._

"Where did your companions go?! Where are they, you coward?" 

He does not answer, just stares at them, dumbfounded. _What are you thinking? I'm sick as a dog, but I'm not so out of it not to understand what you want me to tell you- I'm no traitor!_

"You must be a disgrace of a soldier to be left behind like this..." The one not shaking him says.

_If you only knew..._

He is shaken again, this time more forcefully. 

"Answer me! Where did the whores of your friends go?"

He looks down, trying to make sense of what he should say, and in which language. He loses track of the thought. 

"Not only drunk, Jean- he's probably also stupid."

_Yes, I'm stupid, you are stupid- we are all stupid in this awfully cruel war._

"No shit he was missing all shots."

_You cannot be further from the truth._

"Let's take him to the Lieutenant, he'll know what to do with him." Pierre looks at him and makes a gun being fired motion to his own head. _Lovely._

He feels rather than sees when they unbuckle his belt and restrain his wrists with it. Too bad if he's so thin now his pants threaten to fall from his hips, barely held in place on their own. He wants to chuckle at the absurd possibility of being taken prisoner with his white ass on display. So he chuckles. And is perfunctorily backhanded. Again. 

They have some trouble making him leave the trench with bound hands and a disorientation only fever, injury and exhaustion could deliver. _Their problem, let them deal with the 'drunk' boche._

He wants nothing more than to lay down and sleep- _die?_ \- as they drag him through no man's land. He stumbles a few too many times. He is shaken and shoved for his efforts. Some punches will leave marks, the wound in his side throbbing with them.

They call him every derogatory term their young and poisoned minds can conjure. He closes his eyes, too dizzy, too nauseous to see the corpses left behind. They seem not to care. 

He feels like he's sleepwalking in a nightmare. 

_How many minutes have we been walking? It almost feels like hours…_

The expletives continue. Nationality related slurs. Drunk, disgraceful, coward, a shame to his uniform. 

He feels his cheeks burn, but not in shame. He stayed behind to allow his men time to take shelter in another place, more protected. 

_"They are safe, they are safe, they are safe..."_ He keeps thinking while memories flood his mind.

"Jörg, that’s an order…" His second in command stayed by his side even so, while the others gathered all they could carry, torn between following his leader till the end and following orders. "Please," he murmured, and this time Jörg reluctantly assented. 

Then, a few hours later, he was alone on the trenches, never letting the company of the machine gun who would ensure their enemies would be kept away long enough for his men to reach the safe place kilometers away. The drizzle and the unrelentingly cold night. All food and equipment salvageable, including his greatcoat, taken with them, under his orders. Morning finding him coughing and feverish. Disoriented. 

_No hope of surviving, and yet..._

It was difficult to aim with his eyes not focusing as they should. Movement from afar- _are they attacking or is this just a test to check if we are still here? We are here, stay there!_

Then yelling, screams, bullets, noise… _Gott mit uns._

He aimed, but he couldn't shoot. He _had_ to. He couldn't.

With his vision blurry and hands trembling, not only from sickness, but also from emotions born from the end of hope, he took his decision.

_Gott mit uns... allen._

He missed every single shot. He did his best to shoot close enough to hold them back, but he knew it was a matter of time until they figured out there was only one shooter, and that he was missing their marks. 

One single man cannot hold a whole platoon long. But he surely would try to.

Hands still holding him, more insistent now, bring him back to reality. They have reached the other side of no man's land, and they once again have trouble, this time making him go down the narrow ladder of their trenches.

They ceased swearing, but not manhandling him. He is brought through many narrow passages inside their trenches. He passes blurred faces, blurred uniforms, blurred… 

_It's all the same, just a different language and uniform color._

Some of them stare at him, some spit on his direction. One or two shove him and his knees hit the ground, hard. Threats, cursing.

The hands of his captors steer him from the walls of their trenches. He navigates the nightmare. 

Light disappears, _inside a dugout_. 

One last shove and he is kneeling in a room illuminated by candles, hands on his shoulders holding him down and in place. He tries to look around, but his vision is too blurred to get the details. He lowers his head. 

_This must be their Commander's office._ His mind supplies the information they had gathered in the previous weeks: fights with honor, respected the ceasefire while the medics attended the wounded and his men retrieved the tags from the fallen. Good strategist. Probably a reasonable man.

_What about the prisoners they've taken? Didn't see any- of course, not! They must have been taken to that complex over the river, together with the equipment._

He is taken from his thoughts by someone else entering the room. _Their Kommandant._

"Pierre and Jean, what's this?"

_This voice sounds familiar…_

"We found him on their trenches, Lieutenant." 

They speak over each other. "He was alone there-" 

"Only him there." Pierre says. 

Jean complements. "He must have been too wasted to follow them." 

"They probably left him behind as canon fodder, sir."

There is silence. 

"We found out that-" 

He is interrupted by the Lieutenant. "I already briefed the men." A sigh, the Lieutenant already knows what was and wasn't found on the enemy's trenches. "Only him, then. Could you extract any information already?" 

He keeps his head down. He _is_ the enemy. 

"No, sir. Fellow here is too drunk. We brought him here because we thought you would like to interrogate him yourself, sir."

"And why would I want to do that myself, Pierre?" 

"Well..." The man is unsure, "So you could, you know… after?"

"No, I don't know, enlighten me." The Lieutenant crosses his arms and waits.

"Ahn… well, first the information, and then one normally would like to..." Jean lets a small cough out and does some gestures.

"What, pray tell, what do you think 'one would like to' after?" Patience reaching its end.

_That voice. He heard it before._

"Well, uhn… you know-"

"WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M GONNA DO WITH THIS BASTARD, JEAN AND PIERRE?!" 

The shock of hearing the angered yelling, together with the prospect of being the recipient of said anger and whatever they meant, suddenly made Horstmayer remember. He raises his head to confirm it. 

"Lieutenant Audebert?" He asks tentatively, in almost a whisper. 

Silence, and the confirmation of his suspicion when said Lieutenant comes closer to him.

" _Oberleutnant_ Horstmayer?" Audebert is flabbergasted.

"You two know each other?" Pierre's slip on protocol is forgotten as Audebert's eyes rake over the subdued German kneeling in front of him, as if checking it's indeed Horstmayer.

"Shut up, Pierre!" Jean whispers to his companion. 

Lieutenant Audebert seems to have reached a decision. "You two can let go of him," he orders. As they finally release their captive, Audebert harshly commands, "Get out of my sight, and no word about the prisoner." 

The two soldiers salute and leave the room in a hurry. 

Horstmayer slumps to the floor, half sitting half lying without the aide of their rough hands holding him up. He hears a sigh, and a moment later hands are guiding him to sit with his back to the wall. 

"Give me your hands." Audebert orders. 

He complies, not sure at the moment if knowing the man is a good thing or not.

"Glad to know it's you instead of someone else." He tries in amicable French. 

Audebert makes quick work of the belt around his wrists. 

"Unfortunately, we meet again under such circumstances instead of at Rue Vavin." 

"Not a word, _Oberleutnant_. Not a word." Audebert harshly answers as he gives a final tug and Horstmayer's hands are finally free, if still being held by him. The German Lieutenant promptly stops talking and looks at his now free hands. 

Audebert lets his eyes look down at the chaffed writs and trembling hands he is holding. He is conflicted, lost on how to deal with the prisoner after all they lived together in those three intense days not so long ago. He stands up and starts to pace the poor illuminated room. 

He's taken aback by Horstmayer's serious tone when he speaks again, after a few moments of tense silence. "Apologies for my lack of manners, Lieutenant Audebert. It won't happen again." 

Audebert feels rather than sees how the man siting on the floor deflates, his posture subdued, nothing of the diligent _Oberleutnant_ he met before in sight. 

"What am I going to do with you?" Audebert asks himself aloud, exasperated. 

_You could send me to a prisoner camp or execute me, for all I care, just let me rest._

Audebert stops pacing. "Why were you left behind?" This time he asks him directly, then continues to talk himself before he has the chance to hear an answer, "And what's wrong with you that you cannot even stand on your own, anyway?"

Horstmayer glares at him. Audebert stares back.

Horstmayer's eyes start to close on their own again in the middle of their staring contest. He cannot care less. 

He feels a warm hand patting his face then resting on his forehead. He hears Audebert calling his name. He opens his eyes again, trying to focus on the worried face in front of him.

"You are burning up!"

_Really?_

"Horstmayer, what's wrong with you? Were you injured? Are you ill?"

"Don't worry," he manages to slur. "I'll be able to be standing for the execution." It's half joke, half truth.

"You crazy _Boche_ , we are not executing you!" Audebert snorts, some of the tension leaving him.

_No? Since when?_ "If you are not doing so yourselves, my side will do it anyway." He starts, then continues in a smaller voice, almost a whisper at Audebert's confused expression. "I didn't miss the targets for lack of a good aiming." The information sinks in, and he hears Audebert sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Frankly, I don't know what to do with you yet, but I... Why were you alone in there, anyway? Where are the others?" 

Horstmayer chuckles. "Interrogation first, of course. Then the firing squad." His eyes close again. He had enough, the deaths, the killing… he had enough. 

"Not so fast." Audebert walks to the door and orders the soldier standing guard outside to call the medic to come check the prisoner.

When he goes back inside, Horstmayer is laying on the ground on his side, barely conscious. 

Audebert kneels close to him and starts to undo the top buttons of his uniform to help him breathe better. He feels the heat radiating from the pale skin, the cheeks colored red and the labored breathing making the _Oberleutnant_ look like a very sick young man instead of an enemy. 

"What do I do with you?" Audebert lets his concern show undisguised in his voice this time. "What am I to do with you, Horstmayer?" 

_Let me sleep. Let me rest. Let me… whatever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Injustice is such a good whump trope (TM).  
>   
> Trying a loose style, as writing something more cohesive was not working for me. Hope it works.  
> I'm also leaving the descriptions to a bare minimum, leaving most to each one's imagination.


	2. Treating the enemy

Audebert is passing close by the dugout room acting as a makeshift infirmary, his mind immersed in bureaucratic matters, when he hears it. 

"That's an order, soldier! Sit here and let me have a look or- Come here, NOW! 

For a moment, he finds it strange that someone is being treated so harshly, especially as the infirmary should be empty after two days of no one being injured in battle. 

Then it comes to him, the young and familiar German lieutenant Pierre and Jean brought from the empty enemy trenches a few hours ago all feverish, injured and sporting signs of their 'hospitality'. 

He's already decided to let the good old doctor deal with whatever is going on with the man when he hears more shouting, this time followed by groans and indiscernible one-sided dialogue, the sound of varied objects hitting the floor and... a scuffle? His eyes instantly leave the papers he was again trying to read and he jogs the few steps to the entrance of the room. 

"Stop it now! Stay quiet- No, no, no, you won't!" 

Stopping at the door, he finds pandemonium inside: many medical tools and vials on the floor, an auxiliary table and a gurney turned sideways... all mixed up with a disheveled looking Doctor Heron Beaulieu brandishing a hypodermic in one hand and holding Lieutenant Horstmayer by the collar with the other. 

"If you don't quit it now, young man, I'm gonna have the guys come here and hold you down!" The doctor shouts exasperated.

To Audebert, said young man seems not to be struggling so much as trying to break free from the doctor, his movements uncoordinated and feeble. He looks scared and exhausted.

Audebert is tempted to turn around and get out of there, leaving the problem to be dealt with by the doctor, but the pained winces caused by the harsh handling of his Chief Medical Officer spark sympathy for the poor German patient.

"What's happening here?" Audebert asks in his most authoritative voice. 

"Oh, good that you're here, Lieutenant."

Horstmayer uses the diversion caused by the newcomer's arrival to free himself from the doctor and curl up in a corner of the room, wincing as he tries to make his body as small as possible. His eyes are attentive, if unfocused, to any movement of both men.

Audebert holds the impulse of lashing out when he sees how the lieutenant seems in pain, deciding instead to ask in a polite, if impatient, tone, "What's all this?" 

"The prisoner is refusing treatment, he’s not allowing me to touch him! He was behaving when he was first brought here, but now he’s like this."

Audebert looks to the doctor, confused by how one could change the behaviour so much. 

"He was cooperating before, and then he became difficult and tried to escape!" The doctor is exasperated.

Audebert looks at Horstmayer rolled up on the floor, cheeks red by the effort and fever and looking suspiciously at the doctor. 

"Why would he refuse being treated if he was being treated before?" 

"Because it's late and my life can't get any worse?" Beaulieu pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Have you tried _talking_ to him, Heron? He understands French."

"Yes, I tried, and no, he doesn't." The doctor crosses his arms. 

"Yes, he does." Audebert feels the time allocated to the papers he needs to read and sign fleeing and flying away. "He speaks our language fluently, I assure you." 

The doctor glares at him and is glared in return, long years of knowing each other allowing the lack of proper treatment on both sides.

"Camille, usually I'd say this is just one more of your acts of goodwill, bringing another poor soul to be treated and saved, but this… There’s something more to it. This is madness! Couldn't you just leave the guy on his own side of the trenches?"

“He wasn’t brought here on purpose.”

“He is _German_ , of course he wasn't.”

"I know him."

"Why that doesn't surprise me."

"He's an officer, we have to follow protocols."

"Don't you dare reciting military protocols to me, Camille!"

"Would you rather dismiss them? He's a decorated Lieutenant of the Imperial German Army."

"Wearing a soldier uniform, for unknown reasons."

"That's another problem, you can ask him, if you will."

"Why?" Beaulieu means it all. 

"He was on the Blessed Night."

The doctor understands instantly. "That's _the_ German _Oberleutnant_."

"That's him."

"He's so young, barely out of diapers.” Beaulieu measures Horstmayer with a critical eye and the young lieutenant lowers his head. “I took him for someone older, more experienced- your age, perhaps."

"Yet he stayed behind to save his men before being dragged here."

They exchange a long look before the French lieutenant goes to the corner where Horstmayer is sitting with his arms and knees pulled close to him. Audebert crouches in front of him and touches a shoulder to get his attention.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Audebert asks in French.

Horstmayer looks up at him with bloodshot eyes that seem not to focus entirely. Audebert can feel the heat radiating from him, minute tremors shaking his thin frame. 

"I don't understand what he's saying." Horstmayer answers in German.

Audebert and Heron share quizzical looks, and Audebert tries in French, again. "He's our Regiment doctor, he will treat you. He was treating you before, he tells me." 

"He will try to kill me, like everyone else here wants him to." Horstmayer answers him unexpectedly in French.

"And why would he want to do that?" Audebert asks in German.

"Because he is French, and we shouldn't trust the French." Horstmayer answers truthfully, in French. Then continues in German. "They are evil."

Audebert hardly suppresses a snicker. "All the French are evil?" He receives a nod for an answer. "What about me, am I evil? Is your wife evil, too?”

The face the young lieutenant makes at that, as if reckoning where the calculations went wrong, makes both Audebert and Heron smirk. 

"What did you give him?" Audebert asks as he stands up. 

"Morphine, so I could treat his wounds. He was docile before when I examined him, if not uttering a word. Well, until the drug reached his bloodstream when he was brought back. Instead of allowing it to work, I turned my back for a second to get the instruments in the cabinet and he made a dash for the door." 

“Which is way better than him trying to attack you.”

“I’m a doctor but I can defend myself, Camille,” Beauliet points to his sidearm tucked above a high cabinet.

“Of that, I’m sure.” Audebert concedes. ”So you dragged him back inside, which probably increased his adrenalin-fuelled response, and then you tried to give him more morphine while he tried to break free from your grasp to flee.”

"Pretty much that. It doesn’t make sense. As you can see for yourself in this whole mess in here, it's like he is resisting being sedated and treated for nothing."

"My guess is he's not resisting, he is just scared. And high."

"I'm not scared," comes the low reply in German from the floor.

"Fine, he is not scared. Heron, what do you need to treat him for?"

"He has a shrapnel laceration on his side that requires disinfection, removal of the foreign bodies and some extensive stitching. I already checked the contusions on his torso, they caused slight internal bleeding, but nothing to do there at the moment. He has no signs of head trauma, though, he's not concussed. Surprisingly enough, though, he lacks our omnipresent lice friends." 

Audebert snorts. 

Horstmayer struggles to get something from inside a pocket on his trousers and produces a small comb that looks suspiciously like something meant to get rid of lice instead of a regular comb. 

He looks triumphantly at the two men. As they look back at him with unbelieving expressions, Horstmayer starts combing his hair to show them how to do it, as if they are French and probably don’t know how a lice comb works, the barbarians.

Horstmayer looks impossibly young and proud when he finishes, with hair combed down over his eyes and an undershirt too big for him. The doctor shakes his head, as if to dislodge what he’s just seen from his mind.

"Speaking of which, he looks so… clean?”

"I had the guys bathe him in cold water to bring his temperature down before starting to treat him."

"And he didn't resist _that_?" 

"As I said, the demon was an angel when he was first brought here." 

"I'm not a demon, you are a demon." The reply comes in mixed languages from the man on the floor.

“He is slurring more, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, the sedative must be finally kicking in.”

Audebert turns to Horstmayer. "Lieutenant, explain something to me," Audebert uses the same voice he would use with his young son. "Why were you so well behaved before and now you're fighting medical treatment from the same doctor who was treating you?" 

Horstmayer looks at him like he didn't understand a single word. 

"See, I told you. A devil."

"Shh, Heron." Audebert speaks slower. "What are you afraid of?"

Again, a mixed languages answer, almost unintelligible. "He could not find a vein, and he tried, and he tried again, and it hurt…" A sigh, and Horstmayer pulls his sleeve up to show his arm, indeed with angry looking puncture marks, one of which is still bleeding.

He seems to lose the train of thought looking at his arm, but then he continues. "Do you know that the French kill their prisoners?" His voice goes conspiratorially lower, as if he wants only Audebert to hear. "He will try to kill me, too." He nods to give emphasis, and Audebert almost bursts out laughing.

"Who told you that?" Audebert hides his amusement, Heron's exasperated expression not helping in keeping the laughing at bay.

"The men who brought me here told me. Pierre and Jean. Or Jean and Pierre. I can't remember which is right. They took me to wash after the doctor examined me, and it was so cold... And they made me eat that tablet, then drink a lot of something awful, and-" 

"Wait, wait-" Audebert sinalizes with a hand. “A tablet?” He mouths ‘cocaine?’ and Beaulieu nods a ‘probably’.

Audebert continues his inquiry. "What did they make you drink?"

"Alcohol- I don’t know what it was, but it tasted awful, it made me sick. But they said it was to warm me up, so they kept forcing that foul tasting _thing_ down my throat."

"Go on," Audebert gestures for him to continue. "They washed you, gave you a cocaine tablet and made you drink some indecipherable alcoholic beverage, then what?"

"They ridiculed me, and shoved me around some more when I didn't answer them, and… and they said the doctor would pretend to treat me, and then he would give me something to sleep, and then he would kill me, 'like a sorry excuse of a man like me deserved'." Horstmayer finishes, dizziness showing straight on his face. 

"There you go." Audebert exclaims to the older doctor. "I'll have a talk with those two later." 

"Lieutenant Horstmayer, I assure you I will not try to kill you." Beaulieu tries in a serious tone. "You are our prisoner, but you'll be treated humanely."

"They said you would say that. And I don't trust you."

"Lieutenant!" Audebert's sudden severe tone makes the sick man look down. "That's uncalled for, Doctor Beaulieu does not deserve this."

Horstmayer looks up to Audebert, seeking his forgiveness. "Sorry, Doctor Beaulieu. I shouldn't have said that. You _can_ kill me if you want." He offers his punctured arm wrist up to the doctor and checks if Audebert is still mad at him.

The doctor pinches the bridge of his nose and Audebert sighs.

“He seems to trust you intrinsically, Camille.”

“Probably because I’m the only person he recognizes here. Or maybe it’s just because I’m the only one not bringing him any pain, purposely or not. Right, Lieutenant?”

Horstmayer looks at him like he's lost, then he nods, as if sensing it's important to acknowledge something, even if he doesn't understand what.

“Good boy,” Camille can’t resist the joke, and smiles back when Horstmayer smiles at him, glad with the praise received.

"Maybe we just drag him to the gurney and that's it?" Heron suggests.

"Let me try first." Audebert goes again to where Horstmayer is curled up and helps him up by the arm, the younger man flinching when some unseen injury is jarred by the movement and having difficulty to keep standing on his own. Audebert guides him to one of the gurneys and makes him sit, the German officer leaning heavily on him.

He starts unbuttoning Horstmayer's undershirt while still holding him in a sitting position, careful not to entangle it on his dog tags or pull the clothing too harshly where it's stuck with blood over the wound on his side. 

Audebert is appalled by what he encounters when he finally removes the undershirt, a deep and nasty looking laceration that goes from his ribs all the way on his side to his back, smaller ones around, bruises peppering the pale skin on his front, back and arms in varying shades of purple and green. To complete the gory picture, not only one, but both arms sport bruises from the previous attempts to find a suitable vein.

He tries not to show his disgust with the treatment dispensed to their enemy by Pierre and Jean in particular and the war in general while he helps Horstmayer lay down on his not injured side on the gurney, facing the room and them both.

"Better, lying down?" Audebert asks, sincerely hoping so.

"Yes," comes the reply in German, followed by the same word in French. 

Meanwhile, the doctor gathers the equipment on the floor and prepares what’s going to be needed to disinfect the wound, remove the shrapnel and stitch it shut. The tools look sharp and terrifying, and as he comes closer and deposits some of them on the small side table close to the gurney, Horstmayer starts breathing faster, fear written all over his face.

"Horstmayer? Horst? Look at me." Audebert says not unkindly. "He's here to treat you, to make you feel better." 

Horstmayer nods, but Audebert can still feel the tension on the bruised and battered body, the man so high he probably doesn't even know where he is anymore or understands all that is there is to fix him.

"Heron, can you give him something stronger? Knock him out, I don’t know."

"Unfortunately, I can't completely anesthetize him, not without knowing the amount of cocaine he consumed or what and how much he was forced to drink. He's already suffering from drug interaction as it is.” The doctor says apologetically. 

“So he’ll not be completely out.” Audebert lets his hand absentmindedly rest on Horstmayer’s head while the doctor checks the sluggishly bleeding laceration and calculates what more equipment will be necessary. 

It’s clear even to Audebert's untrained eyes there’s at least some shrapnel still embedded deep inside the wound, something that will require some painful digging by the doctor. “And he’s been too skittish to be trusted not to move.” The implications go unsaid.

The doctor nods and prepares a new morphine hypodermic, leaving it at the side table. He then goes fetching other tools and takes them to the improvised sink to be cleaned. 

Horstmayer sees it and closes his eyes, bringing his arms closer to him as if to protect himself. Audebert feels the trembling intensify from where his hands touch Horstmayer's feverish body.

"Hey, it will be over soon."

"Lieutenant?" The whisper is almost not heard by Audebert.

"Yes, Horst?" 

"Will it take long?" He looks hopeful.

"Yes, it will take some good many minutes." Audebert answers, knowing that some extensive procedure will take place.

"Will it hurt?" Fear, and again some hope.

Audebert sighs, but answers truthfully. "Yes, unfortunately, it will."

He sees the young man's expression crumble while he shudders.

A nod, then a whisper. "Let my wife know what happened to me… Please?”

This makes both doctor and lieutenant stop. 

"Horst, you are not gonna die. It's just stitches to your side."

"No?" Horstmayer stays silent for a moment, some light coming back to his eyes. Then he asks quietly, "Will you be with me?"

"Yes, I will." Audebert answers with a sad smile.

"Then it will be fine." Horstmayer says in mixed languages and obediently presents his arm to the doctor again.

Even Beaulieu, a seasoned man, couldn't hold the sentiment from crossing his features. This was not the devilish young man that gave him trouble earlier, or a fallen enemy turned prisoner, this was a young man scared and disoriented, but willing to trust his enemies turned captors with his life. 

"Listen to me, son, I'll do it as quickly as advisable. Just try to relax and not tense too much." The doctor says, and Horstmayer nods.

Audebert doesn't know what to say or do other than keep petting his hair in the poor illuminated room while Beaulieu finds a vein and injects the full content of the hypodermic. In a matter of seconds, Horstmayer closes his eyes, apparently losing consciousness.

Beaulieu then goes to a nearby cabinet and comes a few moments later with ropes in his hands. "It’ll be easier if we tie him down." 

“Is it really necessary?” Audebert asks.

“It’s for his own safety.” Beaulieu says kindly.

Audebert nods, resignation written all over his face. He holds the pale wrist closer to him while Beaulieu ties it to the gurney with practiced ease, both men surprised as a barely conscious Horstmayer offers the other arm he was keeping close to him on his own to be tied away from the injury to be stitched. 

The French Lieutenant feels a surge of pride and caring for his downed enemy, the one brought to his company among so many that could have come, in a trick of destiny. 

Disinfectant is applied in preparation to the small surgery, the ropes checked. Beaulieu places a piece of leather on his patient's mouth, adjusting it with practice.

"Camille, hold him still." He addresses his _impromptu_ nurse and Audebert tentatively checks where he will have to hold to keep the body immobilised. 

The doctor starts digging around the open wound to remove the small pieces of metal embedded there, and the small whimpers soon turn into full groans, the trembling increasing as the wound is thoroughly searched and freed from pieces of varying sizes and shapes. 

Then the biggest piece is found, which is the hardest one to remove from the wound, the German lieutenant starts to sluggishly trash on his bounds, instinctively trying to get away from the pain. 

Audebert holds him with bruising force, his hands and arms also hurting from holding so tight. He is torn between wanting to stop the whole thing and going through, wanting his fallen enemy safe and healthy again. 

Years in the field and too many gory experiences make Audebert know the exact moment shock sets in, which is when the trashing is substituted by minute tremors, skin going clammy. 

He tries to concentrate on anything other than the way Horstmayer's face is showing all the pain of the procedures, tears falling unchecked from his closed eyes. 

So he does what comes to his mind to diminish his suffering, and starts to recount the events of the Blessed Night to Beaulieu, as if his friend had never heard about it before.

Both men know Audebert's idea is working when the German lieutenant starts to calm down, his fast and irregular breathing slowing down, only his sobs now audible through the leather bit on his mouth. 

Then Beaulieu declares the wound clean and says they are a stitching away from finishing it. Even being a seasoned man, Audebert feels sorry for the young enemy lieutenant, as he knows himself how much stitches hurt. 

Audebert resumes the story, this time describing all the set up before the truce, adding anecdotes and steering away from complicated topics such as Ponchel and the aftermath of their Christmas together.

Beaulieu provides good humored comments and incredulity when some parts of the story are told while he meticulously stitchs the open cut with care and patience. 

Audebert notices that Horstmayer seems now almost completely out of it, so he stops forcefully holding him down and starts comforting him by petting his hair again, mimicking movements that would calm his son. 

"Done." Beaulieu says after a while, drying his sweaty brow. "He will be good as new in no time."

"Thank you, Heron." Audebert says sincerely and draps a blanket he finds nearby over the now unconscious man. 

"You shouldn't thank me, you are the one giving a chance to this poor man. Speaking of which," Beaulieu points to the unconscious form on the gurney, "What are you planning to do with him?"

"I don't know yet. His Company has left to some unknown location, so it's unlikely they will try to retrieve him. Normally I'd hold him here together with the others, but the ones we had in the compound were already taken to the camp." 

Beaulieu nods and starts cleaning his equipment. "It will be a few hours until he wakes up, you can leave him here until you decide what to do."

Audebert nods. "You know, I had work to do today, before I was rudely interrupted by this." Audebert points to the papers lying forgotten over one of the other gurneys. "I could work from here until he wakes up" He goes to the sleeping form and starts untying his wrists.

"I advise against it, Camille." Beaulieu says from the cabinet where he is storing the tools used. "You don't know how he will behave when he wakes up." 

Audebert thinks for a moment, then resumes untying the inert arms. "Ten on he will behave."

"You will never change... he's not a stray dog."

"I know, he's a stray _boche_." He chuckles and Beaulieu shakes his head.

"Do as you like, just don't come to me to stitch you too, in the morning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's almost criminal the amount of fun it was writing this. :evil grin:
> 
> I was planning a darker and somber chapter two, but then we talked about high!Horstmayer and the idea was too yummy to let it pass. As usual, I hope it's not too out of character.


	3. Enemy?

Audebert is sitting at Doctor Beaulieu's desk late at night working on the Company's documents and calculations when he hears the German lieutenant stir on the gurney closest to the door.

He pauses and looks in Horstmayer's direction, predicting his reactions, a welcome distraction from the military bureaucracy he'd not signed for when he joined the Army.

Small movements, a wince. Then he opens his eyes and blinks a few times, adjusting to the poor illumination of the room. He looks around, confusion registering on his face before it's followed by a gasp as the pain from his various wounds finally catches up with him. His hands go instinctively to his side over the blanket, and he closes his eyes again at the pain there. 

"Welcome back to the living, Lieutenant Horstmayer." Audebert greets. 

"What- where..." Horstmayer tries in German, then exhales, memory rushing back. "French Lieutenant Camille Audebert, from the 26th Infantry Regiment," he continues in French. 

"The one and only." Audebert gets up and walks over to the gurney. "You were out for hardly two hours. You are expected to survive." 

The joke seems not to work as Horstmayer looks at him at a loss for what to say or do. He starts to sit up, wincing at the throbbing pain on his side.

Audebert helps him up, mindful of his injuries. Gone is the heat coming from the high fever, substituted by small tremors and goosebumps indicating the lieutenant is probably feeling cold. 

He gathers the undershirt Horstmayer was wearing when he was first brought in, but notices it's ruined by blood, so he throws it to the corner of the room, where other medical material was disposed, and gets the German soldier uniform jacket draped over a chair.

He brings it to Horstmayer, who accepts it with no words and starts to dress. He's halted by a sudden wave of dizziness. 

"Here, let me help you, _Oberleutnant_ ," Audebert says as he helps guide the bruised arms into the sleeves. "Or should I say, _Private_ Horstmayer?"

Horstmayer looks at him with a confused look, then grimaces. "It was the only uniform available, Lieutenant Audebert. Apologies for my lack of military dressing protocol." 

Audebert can't hold back the chuckle. "You haven't changed a bit, Horst... Speaking of which, you still have to tell me what in the good graces happened on your side and with your men." 

Horstmayer knew an interrogation would follow his bringing here and the subsequent treatment by his enemies, but he's caught by surprise by Lieutenant Audebert's good naturedly tone, even if it benefits his health not being tortured for information and punished for not offering it easily so soon. 

Will Audebert be honorable and resort to acceptable interrogation techniques, or will he… He can’t finish the thought, too sickened by the implications of his spilling of information on his side, for he will talk, given enough _encouragement_. 

His head starts to analyze different scenarios and outcomes, but the pressure in his bladder suddenly makes him think of more pressing matters.

"Permission to use the sanitary facilities first, Lieutenant?" 

Audebert snickers at the formal tone. "Permission granted, _Oberleutnant_." 

As Horstmayer stands up from the gurney, his knees buckle and Audebert holds him up, guiding him back to sit on it as cold sweat breaks all over him, followed by his face paling fast.

"I don't think I'll-" 

Audebert understands instantly, and a bucket is put under Horstmayer's head, where he promptly vomits. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." He mutters between bolts of retching.

Audebert keeps his hand on the sick man's back, and it takes him some effort not to murmur reassurances like he would do to his son Henri. 

Once he's finished, Audebert gives him an old rag to clean his face. A metal mug with water follows, which Horstmayer drinks like a drowned man.

"We should probably wait until you feel better before we have our talk. I'll call Doctor Beaulieu and have the guys bring you to the- how did you call it? - 'sanitary facilities'," Audebert says with a good naturedly smile, " _then_ we'll talk." 

Horstmayer nods, and Audebert goes to fetch the doctor and someone to escort him.

He comes back a few minutes later with Doctor Beaulieu in tow and two soldiers who stand guard outside the infirmary.

"Oh, he's awake." Beaulieu greets. "How are you feeling, Lieutenant Horstmayer?" 

"I'm feeling fine, sir." Horstmayer dutifully answers as the doctor starts to examine him.

"Bullshit, Horstmayer!" Audebert supplies from close by. "You look like hell and must feel even worse." 

"I'm feeling dizzy and a little nauseous, yes, sir. Vomited a few minutes ago." Horstmayer provides sheepishly, but not before sending a 'why?' look at Audebert, who promptly smirks in return. 

"Something else? Disorientation, pain…? 

"Yes, sir." 

Beaulieu nods and addresses Audebert without looking at him from checking the prisoner. "Glad we are on a 'sir' basis here." 

"Would you rather having the ‘devil’ back?"

"I doubt he remembers half of it." The doctor addresses Horstmayer, now. "Do you remember what happened earlier this evening while you were being treated, Lieutenant?"

Horstmayer is confused for a moment before disconnected memories and ghost sensations hit him like a train. He groans in shame, a red hue appearing on his cheeks. "I… I don't know what to say, sir. My apologies, I don't know why I behaved like that."

"It's fine, son. You were intoxicated with more than just morphine, it's a mystery how you even functioned with cocaine and alcohol also in your system. Speaking of which," Beaulieu looks at Audebert, "you left him alone in here, didn't you?" 

"Yes, why?" Audebert answers.

"I don't know what to do with the two of you." Beaulieu mutters to himself. "Lieutenant Horstmayer, you'll be in good shape in no time. Lieutenant Audebert, a word with you?"

"Just a moment, Heron." Audebert goes outside the room and orders the two privates waiting there to escort Horstmayer to their 'sanitary facilities'. It amuses him to no end how the German lieutenant offers his arms to be bound, like such a well behaved prisoner - the prior berserk nowhere to be seen.

When he goes back inside the room, Heron is holding his charged sidearm in his hands.

"Explain to me, Lieutenant Audebert, how you could leave a German prisoner alone in a room with access to a gun and all types of medical instruments that could have been used as weapons." His tone is serious, but not unkind.

"Come on, Heron, it's Horstmayer we are talking about here."

Beaulieu sighs. "I know, Camille, but you have known him for what, three, four days altogether? How can you be so sure he would not try something? Both of us could be dead by now."

Audebert thinks for a moment, looking for words to explain the unexplainable. 

"But we are not, are we? He had time to try anything, fetch your gun or some scalpel, but no, he was sitting here just as I left him when we came back. He could have tried to attack you earlier, but he only tried to flee from what he thought would be his death. Don't you see? That's honor, he's a good man."

"And good man do the unspeakable in a war, Camille. You can't trust people like that, it might get you, or your men, killed."

"Heron..."

"No, Camille, now it's my time to talk. I've known you since you were a kid. A stray dog is not the same as a wounded enemy officer. He might be a good man- and I truly believe he is - but he's also an enemy soldier, our prisoner, and he might do whatever is at his reach to survive." 

Audebert listens to Beaulieu's points, but deep inside he knows what he's doing, trusting Horstmayer.

"I suggest you start treating him like a prisoner, for it'll be less hard on you when his destiny is decided." Beaulieu's expression softens when he continues, all his care for the younger man showing on his seasoned features. "Camille, I hate to be the one telling you this, but you know how things are."

"Yes, I know you're right."

"You need to keep your distance. Do not trust so much."

When Horstmayer is brought back inside the dugout during the cold night, he’s not taken to the infirmary, but to Audebert’s private chambers that also act as his office.

Audebert motions for the men escorting him to leave, and Horstmayer stays at attention just inside the door.

“Better?” Audebert asks from where he sits at his desk, those damned papers still requiring his attention.

“Yes, thank you.” Horstmayer makes no motion to continue talking or move from where he is left standing, so Audebert beckons him to sit in one of the chairs close to his desk.

“So, how did you end up alone in your trenches, and where all soldiers and equipment were taken?” Audebert starts with no preamble, and Horstmayer internally flinches at the implications of such questions to his side.

Before Horstmayer has a chance to answer, Audebert cuts him out. “No, let me ask a more important question first...”

Horstmayer's mind go through many different scenarios, if he will be asked for their planned next battle strategies, or where the rest of their Regiment companies are, planned routes of-

“Why are you wearing a private uniform? Were you being dishonest to your wife with some poor man there?” Audebert asks, seriously.

Horstmayer is shocked wordless by the question. Did he hear it right? “I beg your pardon?”

“What were you doing with your men to be wearing their clothes? Were you using your rank to have liberties with subordinates?”

“Surely not, I’d never- I-I… It’s wrong! Are you out of your mind?!” Horstmayer is flabbergasted by those suggestions.

“Are you sure? Because that’d be an entire acceptable explanation for you staying behind, covering for your despicable behavior of using your position to-”

“Lieutenant! Respect me and my men!” Horstmayer is appalled by the single thought of advancing on them, using his rank to order anyone doing something against their will and-

Audebert smacks his thighs, his known smile illuminating his features. “I knew it! If you could see your face right now!”

“Lieutenant...?” Horstmayer’s anger at the previous implication becomes once more confusion.

“Only a truly honorable man would not jump into the chance of saving his ass by lying.”

“You tricked me, I see.”

“Yes, I did, and you fell beautifully into the trap.”

Horstmayer shakes his head, a small smile appearing on his own. “You French men are evil.”

“Yeah, you already said so, and you are too easily gullible. Did you really think we would need information that probably is already old by now? The moment you sent your men away they would know we would extract information from you and change the plans. Am I right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “What happened, after all?”

Horstmayer sighs, and starts to speak, Audebert listening to him attentively. 

He was injured during their last battle, the one prior the one where he was apprehended. Shrapnel from a nearby explosion had hit him, rendering him unconscious. When he came to, his men had taken him to his chambers, his uniform destroyed. 

He refused being treated until his men had had medical attention, so he dressed the wound himself and got into the first uniform available, a jacket and undershirt a little too big for his liking. They knew they didn't have much time until the next offensive, the enemy knowing by now they were at a large disadvantage. Horstmayer and his officers agreed that should they stay there, they would be massacred.

They then did a thorough assessment of the situation, doing calculations and predicting scenarios, and they reached the decision they should join the other company from their Regiment stationed a few kilometers South as soon as possible. They would have to leave the trenches unnoticed by the French side, which meant doing it during the night, in only a few hours. 

That left them with the problem of holding a possible offensive until they safely reached their new location. 

So Horstmayer decided to stay behind, ordering them to gather whatever they could and leave immediately. He encountered discordance and the beginnings of mutiny, his men refusing to leave him behind, but lately he could negotiate them being safe was much more important than the life of only one. As the one in worse physical state, it also made sense he should not slow them down.

Night encountered him cold and hurting, but unable to rest as the offensive from Audebert's side could start any moment. 

Horstmayer makes quick work of describing how he felt and what were his thoughts, but Audebert can read between the lines. 

_Kindred spirits_ , Audebert thinks to himself.

As Horstmayer describes his thoughts and emotions during the travesty that was their last battle, Audebert's eyes fill with unshed tears, empathy making him share the burden. He does not judge when Horstmayer explains how he thought it could be the end of his life, or his lack of proper military… _everything_ when he decided to miss every single shot. Both of them know already what that meant, should it become known to their leaders. 

Soon they are discussing other subjects, life outside the trenches and before the war… Audebert produces a bottle of red wine and two cups, and the subjects evolve to anecdotes, dirty stories from the front, plans for the future after the war… 

It's like both of them missed a normal conversation, educated and polite people finding their natural habitat away from the horrors of war. 

If Horstmayer had to be kept handcuffed and Audebert had to leave the door to the chambers ajar as he dispensed the guards, well, that was the little price to pay for appearances's sake. They were, after all, to everybody's else's eyes, enemies, captor and prisoner. 

But during that night, and only among them, they were just friends.

The next morning, when Chief Medical Officer Heron Beaulieu goes to the Lieutenant’s chambers to get some papers signed, he finds the door slightly open. He knocks and receives no answer. He's almost leaving when he decides to check inside, and is greeted by an odd scene that makes him equally exasperated and fond: 

Lieutenant Camille Audebert, from the French 26th Infantry Regiment, and _Oberleutnant_ Karl Horstmayer, from the German 93rd Infantry Regiment and currently their prisoner, sleeping close to each other, Audebert slumped in a chair and Horstmayer curled up in his bed, playing cards scattered over the table making company to an empty bottle of wine, Audebert's sidearm on a nook on the wall within the German prisoner's reach, like a forgotten afterthought.

Against his better judgement, Heron Beaulieu smiles to himself. Camille Audebert would never change.


End file.
